


Report Cards, Teachers, and Much-Needed Emotional Support

by houseofbees



Category: Ultimate Spider-Man (Cartoon 2012)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28954506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofbees/pseuds/houseofbees
Summary: Sixteen years old, a brick in the classroom, the weight of the world on your shoulders. Thankfully, you can always count on your best friend.
Relationships: Harry Osborn & Peter Parker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	Report Cards, Teachers, and Much-Needed Emotional Support

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in one go at 3am, i know nothing about report cards or teachers or public school or chemistry. enjoy.

He knew the report card was bad. He knew it was trash, knew the moment his dad saw it he’d rip into him and tear him apart and put him in the bin, because he was trash too, wasn’t he? Couldn’t even put in the effort to get a C, much less an A.

Yet, he walked into his dad’s office anyway, package in hand, like his legs were guards pulling him towards a stand and a noose. He couldn’t even muster the energy to fight back.

Norman looked at him, eyes cold as a frozen lake, hands folded, a king sitting on his throne as Harry set his death sentence on his desk. Stomach twisting in knots, he ran his hands around each other.

Slowly, Norman reached for the package, not breaking eye contact. Ripped it open, taking his precious time, and with each second that passed Harry felt the noose getting tighter and tighter. By the time Norman pulled out the card, he couldn’t breathe.  
His dad’s eyes darted down, scanning the paper. Harry swallowed. The walls closed in on him, suffocating him. Heart beating like a helicopter’s blades, he squeezed his hands. Something itched on his neck. Sweat? The wind? A spider? He didn’t know. 

Norman looked up at him. The noose tightened.

“D’s in all your classes?”

The chair fell beneath him.

“I…”  
“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” Norman stood up, looming over him, blocking the light of the window. “What the hell’s wrong with you, boy?”   
Harry looked down, throat closed and arms huddled around his torso.

“Look at me when I speak to you.”  
“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered. Looked up.

“This is unacceptable.” Norman folded his arms. “How are you ever going to make something of yourself with a D in all your classes?”

Silence. A pressure stung at Harry’s eyes. He forced it back.

“Harold Theopolis Osborn.”

“Yes, dad?”

Norman sat back in his chair. Slid the report card across the desk.

“You’d better have these grades back up soon, or I’ll have no choice but to punish you. Harshly. You understand.”  
Harry nodded.

“For now,” he continued, “you are not to have friends over except for tutoring and studying. You can only be on your phone thirty minutes a day. Be glad you didn’t have it worse.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry took a shallow breath. “Thank you, sir.”

“Go to your room. Make some use of yourself, too, and pick up a textbook for once in your life. You need to try harder.”

Harry turned away.

“Yes, sir.”

  
  


“You need to try harder,” Ms. Carlyle said, “that’s what’s holding you back.”

Harry grunted, some vague noise he himself didn’t know the meaning of. He stared out the window, watching the cars on the street and the people walking on the sidewalk and soaking in the sunlight of a warm spring day.

The classroom fizzled with the smell of chemicals—sulfur and acid, probably, maybe, if you squint—and simmered with a liveliness that never quite left, even after everyone was gone.

Everyone but the teacher and him, of course, because even the teachers wanted a turn lecturing him. Lucky him.

“Mr. Osborn.”

Harry looked Ms. Carlyle’s way, though more aiming for the blackboard behind her than her face.

“Yes?”

“What are you struggling with so much? I’m asking this genuinely,” she smiled, “I want to help you.”

“Too few cute girls in the class,” he joked.

It didn’t land.

“I’m serious.” She leaned across the table, looking at him with an intensity such that he had no choice but to meet her eye. “I care about my students, each and every one of them, and you’re no different.”

Wasn’t he? He didn’t understand most of the things she said, ever. The kid who spends the whole class sleeping did better than him. Even Peter’s wisdom fell short, sliding off him like rain off an umbrella.

He was just… broken.

“I don’t know.” He sank down into his chair. “I really don’t know.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Hey,” he straightened up, a smile pulling at his lips, “there’s still that cute girl offer.”

Ms. Carlyle gave him a look. He glanced away, eyes roaming the walls.

“Just let me know if you’re struggling with anything, alright?”  
Harry bounced his leg, staring at a small but noticeable crack in the wall. If he looked close enough, he swore he could see his father’s face frowning at him.

“Yeah, sure, will do.”

  
  


Was it bending his father’s rule if Peter did, technically, come over to study, but the two of them started talking about Star Trek vs. Star Wars and gotten tragically off topic? It probably didn’t count, right?

Either way, here they were, sitting on Harry’s bed, the light of sunset washing them in the warmth of orange and yellow rays, poking each other in the chest and arms with their pencils.

“All I’m saying is—hey!” Peter pouted as Harry poked his pencil at his cheek, a snicker bubbling up in his chest. He withdrew it, Peter rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “As I was saying, Star Trek is better because it represents the good of humanity and what we could do if we established peace on Earth. Star Wars is just too emo for me.”

“Too emo for you?” Harry cocked his head to the side. “Then what about that Linkin Park song I heard in your headphones earlier today?”

“That was… something completely different. Point is, I’d rather watch Spock and Captain Kirk than emo boy Kylo Ren.”

“You’re only saying that because you _are_ Spock.”

“Am not,” Peter folded his arms, “if anything you’re Spock.”  
“How? How am I spock, Peter?”

“I... hey, aren’t we supposed to be studying?”

Harry shrugged. “You’re the one who brought up Star Wars.”

“I wanted to make a joke,” he groaned.

Harry grinned, bapping him on the shoulder. Peter pulled his lips down, swatting his hand away.

“Anyway, what were you stuck on again?”

He looked back down at his page, slouching as he read the words again. A wall of text, science babble that went through one ear and out the other—or one eye and out the other, probably.

“Uh.” He gestured at the page. “Everything.”

Peter nodded, scooting next to him so their knees pressed together. “Okay, so, what _do_ you understand?”

Harry blinked. “Okay. Well, that’s an ethanol molecule and that’s a water molecule.”

“And…?”  
“That’s all.”

“Ah.” Peter leaned back. “I see.”  
Harry bit his finger, running his eyes over the floor of his room. Predictably, nothing had changed about it, and it hadn’t in five years, except his carpet got more worn down and that was about it. Still, better than seeing the disappointment in Peter’s eyes.

Because of course he was disappointing Peter. Obviously, he wasn’t listening. Obviously, Peter would notice that and he wouldn’t say anything because he’s too good of a person, but Harry would see it in his face and hear it in his voice and every time he explained a concept for the fifth time and Harry still wouldn’t get it he’d see it in how he slouched and sighed.

He just wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t applying himself, and how could he ever make his best friend proud like that? He didn’t deserve Peter. He was trash, plain and simple, and it was only a matter of time before Peter realized that and left him and—  
“Har?” Peter put a hand on his shoulder, and only then did Harry realize the wetness in his eyes.

He took in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and willing the tears away.

“I’m fine, sorry. Where were we?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think you’re fine.”  
After Harry didn’t respond, he continued, “Is there something on your mind? Are you frustrated? We can take a break if you are.”   
“A break?”   
“I mean… yeah. If you’re stressed out I don’t want you to keep going. That’s just gonna lead to more stress.”

Harry stared at the ethanol and water molecules.

“But we’ve barely gotten started.”  
“So? We’ve already wasted, what?” Peter snuck a glance at the clock. “Thirty minutes talking about Star Trek? It’s fine if you just don’t feel up to it today.”

“But I haven’t even tried. I mean—” Harry ran his fingers through his hair— “what good is it if I don’t at least try?”

“That’s fair, but it’s not like bad days don’t exist. Sometimes you just... can’t.”

“Seems like I have a bad day every day, then,” Harry mumbled, drawing his knees up to his chest. Peter shuffled beside him, sitting against the pillows.

“I hear you, man. I feel like that sometimes too. It’s okay if you can’t do it, though. You can always try again tomorrow. And, hey,” he gave a small smile, “I’ll be here for you.”  
Harry swallowed, tears welling up in his eyes again. “Seriously, bro?”   
“Seriously, bro. You don’t have to do anything you’re not up to.” He sat up, eyes brightening. “Hey, we could brainstorm some solutions, too, if you want to? Get that spark going again.”

Harry sniffled. “Have I ever told you that you’re my best friend?”

“About a million times, yeah. But you’re my best friend too.” Peter held up his hand. “Now, you wanna kick chemistry in the ass or what?”  
Harry took his hand, lips pulling up into a smile. “Let’s do it.”


End file.
